Memory is not an agent that deals in smoke.
Smoke is a benign appetizer for the funhouses of hell.
Hell is an opulent locomotive in its sulfuric and fanged plumage.
Plumage is a culture unknown to sand.
Sand is a sinister compound for this landscape of loss.
Loss is something we cultivate in our forest of invisible elms.
Elms who sing in a void whose kin has no culprit.